


night call

by daydoodles



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt, Hospitalization, M/M, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydoodles/pseuds/daydoodles
Summary: No one is ever prepared to watch the one they love die.But the thing people forget is, sometimes it’s harder not to watch.





	night call

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted to tumblr [here](http://irlkent.tumblr.com/post/160974976064/for-the-kissing-prompt-post-maybe-number-six-with).

“My voice had nothing to say after the beep.  
Or let me show you: unlimited intimacy  
is a kind of poison.”  
\- Alex Dimitrov, from _Together and by Ourselves_

 

* * *

 

No one is ever prepared to watch the one they love die.

 

But the thing people forget is, sometimes it’s harder not to watch.

 

Maybe that’s why, when Kent finds Jack cold and still on the tile of the bathroom floor, he has a hard time looking away. Maybe that’s why, as Kent calls for an ambulance with shaky hands and a shakier voice, he’s still looking at Jack. Maybe that’s why, while he’s trying to explain what happened to a crying mother through his own broken sobs, he sits in the ambulance and watches the rise and fall of Jack’s chest. It’s proof that Jack is still with him, even if he isn’t, not really.

 

The EMT’s rush from one side of the cot to the other, checking Jack’s vitals, paging the hospital, hooking up an IV. Kent feels like he’s underwater; everything is in slow motion, fuzzy around the edges. He wonders if this is what Jack felt like before he lost consciousness. Someone’s trying to talk to Kent, but it takes several tries before his brain comprehends what they’re saying.

 

“Are you family?” the EMT asks, and Kent isn’t sure how to answer that, because he is, but he isn’t really.

 

“No,” is the simplest response, so it’s the one he gives.

 

“Have you told the family what happened?”

 

“I told his mom.”

 

“Is she going to be at the hospital?” _Why wouldn’t she be_ , he wants to say, but then he remembers not everyone has a family that cares.

 

“Yeah. Her and his dad.” Then the EMT starts rambling to the driver, and no one pays Kent any more attention. It’s easier that way, probably. He’s only paying attention to Jack, anyway.

 

Alicia and Bob are already in the lobby when the ambulance arrives, and they aren’t allowed in the room with Jack till he’s stabilised, so they settle for smothering Kent in concerned looks and tight hugs. He’s suffocating, he thinks, but if they can’t hug their baby then maybe their not-son is the next best thing. He wonders if that’s what he is to them, or if he’s something else. Something more concrete. He doubts it.

 

Either way, touching another living thing is grounding, so Kent is grateful for the contact too. They don’t talk, because what is there to say? “Thanks for finding our son before he died of the overdose that’s probably your fault, Kent.” “No problem, Mr. Zimms. Glad I could help, for once.” Kent is really glad the Zimmermanns have never felt pressured to fill silences that are better left empty.

 

The doctor comes after ten minutes or ten years, Kent has no idea. He’s still drowning, wading through the fluorescence with half-numb limbs. He hears the Zimmermanns talking, asking how Jack is, but he can’t follow the conversation well enough to know what the doctor’s response is. Maybe he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, nothing is all you can say.

 

The doctor swings open a door, and they step into a hospital room that looks like any other; but it’s brighter, softer, because Jack is there. He’s not awake, but his breathing isn’t as shallow as it was before, and his face isn’t as white, and when Kent grabs his hand he can feel that it isn’t as cold. Jack isn’t as close to death as he was before, so Kent isn’t, either. Alicia and Bob look better too, but they’re busy discussing treatment options and possible mental health evaluations and god knows what else that Kent can’t process right now. He wonders how Bob and Alicia do it without pulling apart at the seams, but maybe it’s just because they have to.

 

Kent sits there for the rest of the night, running his thumb over Jack’s knuckles at least a million times, checking the pulse point of his wrist at least a million more. He can see Jack breathing, knows he’s alive, but he won’t let himself believe it until Jack is awake and kissing him and telling him everything will be okay. Because as long as Jack is okay, everything is. Jack is everything.

 

Kent repeats it like a mantra to himself, _Jack is okay and Jack is everything so everything is okay_. He thinks it over and over, till Alicia falls asleep and Bob makes some phone calls to the league and Kent can’t feel his face because he’s so numb inside that it’s finding its way out through his tears. He thinks maybe he’s been crying for longer than he realises, but he’s been numb for longer.

 

Then Jack wakes up, with a simple stirring of his chest and fluttering of his eyes, and the lighting is harsh and it’s too cold and Kent has that bad taste in his mouth from not brushing his teeth the night before but he swears it’s like a scene from a movie all the same. Jack sits up, in slow motion, and looks down at where Kent’s hand is still wrapped around his own, and then to his mother asleep in his dad’s lap in the chair in the corner, and blinks.

 

“Kenny, what are you doing here?” is not what Kent wanted to be the first words out of Jack’s mouth. He’d come up with so many scenarios, so many plans, but none of them involved Jack wanting him gone.

 

“I’m the one who found you,” is also not what he wanted to be the first thing he says to Jack.

 

“Oh. Sorry,” is the response, and what is Jack apologising for? He’s alive, he’s okay; so Kent is alive, everything is okay.

 

“Don’t be. I’m glad I got there when I did,” seems like the only thing to say to that.

 

“I’m not.” There’s no right thing to say to that.

 

But then Bob and Alicia are woken by their low voices, and Kent is spared the agony of coming up with a rebuttal, and the Zimmermanns are spared the knowledge that their son still wishes he were dead.

 

Kent isn’t spared the knowledge that he’s the reason for that.

 

At some point, life does have to go on. Kent gets a call from the NHL, is asked if he’s coming to the draft despite the trauma he just endured. Bob and Jack talk him into it, so he goes. He gets drafted first overall, to the relatively new Las Vegas Aces. He can’t help but feel like he wasn’t their first choice.

 

Jack recovers from the immediate effects of overdose, and prepares for rehab as soon as he’s discharged. Kent aches as he helps Jack get his things sorted; aches when Jack asks how the draft went, aches when Bob offers advice for being a professional athlete, aches when Alicia calls his mom back in New York and offers her congratulations. Kent can’t help but feel like he’s stealing Jack’s thunder, a little bit. Like no one should be paying him attention when Jack is the one who almost died.

 

He says so, and Alicia’s heartbroken, “He wasn’t the only one, Kenny,” resonates with him more than he’d like to admit.

 

They get everything ready, and Bob and Alicia tell Kent goodbye, and give hugs and kisses and promises to keep him updated, and they make him promise to do the same. Then they leave to give the boys a chance to say their goodbyes, and Kent can’t breathe because he’s choking on all the words he wants to say. Jack doesn’t seem to have the same problem.

 

“Bye, Kenny,” is all he says, holds out his arms for a hug.

 

“See ya, Zimms.” Kent melts into Jack, just like he always has, just like he thinks he probably always will. Jack doesn’t respond to his vice grip, besides rubbing a hand across Kent’s shoulder blades, like he knows Kent likes when he’s tense. Kent doesn’t remember the last time he was tense around Jack. “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?” Jack stares at the wall as he says it.

 

“For everything.” Kent stares at the fabric of Jack’s comforter. “For being the one to find you, for finding you too soon. For being the reason you did it in the first place.”

 

“You’re not the reason, Kenny.”

 

“I didn’t help.” And really, what’s the difference?

 

“Maybe not.”

 

They pull apart, and Kent knows Jack has to go, knows he has to go, too. So he leans in, presses his lips tenderly to Jack’s; but instead of the gentle push he usually gets in return, Jack does nothing. His mouth stays shut, but slack, and Kent isn’t sure but he thinks he sees the light in Jack’s eyes dim, just a little.

 

Kent knows how to pick his battles, and he knows when he’s lost.

 

He also knows when he’s wrong, and in that moment it’s clear; the Jack he knew is dead. The Jack he loved is dead, but more importantly, the Jack that loved him is dead. And he isn’t coming back.

 

So Kent pulls away, looks at Jack’s icy blue eyes one more time just so he won’t forget them, and leaves.

 

Five years later, he’ll call Jack. Jack won’t answer, will send him straight to voicemail, and probably wonder why the hell Kent kept his number for so long. And Kent will listen to Jack’s voice on the recording, tinny and far away, and when the beep comes, he’ll hang up. Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing.

 

Jack will listen to the voicemail, later that night, but all he’ll hear is broken sobs and shaky breaths, just like he heard in that hospital room years before.


End file.
